


the game

by lightyears



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exes, F/M, Fingering, Jealousy, Mild Angst, Possessive Behaviour, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Feelings, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyears/pseuds/lightyears
Summary: When Clarke and Bellamy dated, they would engage in a little game that has since been described as an unhealthy exercise in the testing of boundaries and provocation of jealousy.Years later, after matching with her ex on Tinder, Clarke takes a chance that he’s still willing to play.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 34
Kudos: 317





	the game

**Author's Note:**

> it's kinktober! this is the first of three smutty fics i've got planned for this month. not sure if jealousy counts as a kink, but here we are

There’s a distinct change in the air the moment Bellamy arrives.

Clarke can feel it like a switch, electricity suddenly charging around her, a thread of awareness pulling taut as the heat of a watchful faze licks so tantalisingly at her skin.

She’s careful not to react, as is part of the game. Despite the years that have passed, she remembers the rules well. Taking a sip of her drink instead, she leans forward in her bar stool, cosying up to the man who joined her twenty minutes ago, offering a coy smile when he notices the move. He responds with a bold move — a hand on her bare thigh, where her little black dress is riding up — and continues on with his rather patronising explanation of the Very Important Job he does, which, as he told Clarke, allowed him to buy her a martini with the top shelf gin and vermouth.

His name is Brad, or Chad, or something to that effect, and Clarke would feel a lot worse about toying with him if it weren’t for the tan line on his ring finger. Honestly, if he’s going to cheat, she’d rather he own it; this is just insulting to her intelligence.

But she laughs at his lame jokes, feigns impress over the holiday villa he claims to have two hours out of the city, and doesn’t call him out on the multiple _very_ obvious dips of his eyes to the — rather incredible, if she does say so herself — cleavage the deep plunge of her dress provides.

All for Bellamy’s benefit.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him take a seat at the opposite end of the bar. Only when the bartender goes to serve him does she allow herself a quick look; it’s a risk, but a calculated one, and thankfully her prediction is right, and his attention is momentarily drawn from her.

In a dark maroon shirt left unbuttoned over a plain white top, dark jeans and combat boots, he stands out amongst the crowd of suits in the overpriced bar she chose. It’s fucked up, perhaps, that this is part of the game, too, but Bellamy always got most worked up when she flirted with someone he deemed _her_ class. An insecurity that ended up fanning the flames of their break up, but apparently they’re both something of masochists, because she still messaged him two hours ago, and he still came.

It was a simple enough message she sent, but one with a world of history behind it.

_Ark, 8pm_.

The first between them in years, because Clarke deleted his number from her phone when he left — after that final goodbye fuck that’s managed to nestle so deep in her mind that she’s never forgotten it — and she suspects that he did hers, too. Until this evening, when she’d been mindlessly scrolling Tinder, contemplating a one night stand to take off the edge after a stressful month at work, she hadn’t even known he was back in town. The app told her not only that he was, but that he was only 3km away, and, per his bio, _Down for most things._

That, at least, hasn’t changed, because looking at Bellamy now, _outwardly_ , he has _._

Broader at thirty one than he was at twenty six, his curls longer now, too, the sharp jaw she remembers once having a certain fascination with covered with a few days’ of stubble. He holds himself with a sense of authority that years ago, in a place like this, he wouldn’t have; an intrinsic self-worth that even in the midst of this game, she’s pleased to see.

Clarke averts her gaze before she’s caught. She’ll get a closer look later tonight, anyway, and here comes the _real_ fun part.

She’d arrived half an hour earlier than the text suggested, to allow herself enough time to settle in, and of course lure an unsuspecting partner. In a dress she specifically chose for its skimpiness, and the tits she’s been blessed with, that had taken barely ten minutes, which meant for the remaining twenty until Bellamy arrived, she’s been playing solo, with only a hope that he’d come and allow her to reap the rewards of the particular effort pretending to enjoy Brad or Chad’s company required.

Now that she’s got the security of his presence, anticipation thrums hot throughout her. It was always a little ridiculous, how wet he managed to get her without even a single touch, just a burning gaze from across the room, one she felt right down to her core.

Clarke swallows hard, squeezes her thighs together as her cunt pulses, hot and wanting. She takes another sip of her drink, and when her companion flags the bartender for another, she makes sure to thank him profusely, the promise laced in her words just loud enough for Bellamy to hear from his position. That promise, however deceptive it is, is bolstered by the gentle hand she teases over Brad-Chad’s chest, the simpering declaration of just how _firm_ he is.

He’s all but licking his fucking lips, the look that he shoots his buddies close by a clear _this is a done deal, boys._ He keeps his hands close, smoothing over her skin, and she can’t help but notice how pristine they are, reflecting a life absent of a single day’s hard work. Laying it on thick, perhaps to speed up the process of getting her upstairs, to a hotel bedroom he’s been sure to mention he can book tonight, he even goes so far as to tell her how much he enjoys eating women out, how much he’d like to taste _her._

They’re words that, from another mouth, would absolutely work, but unfortunately for Brad-Chad, he’s not Bellamy.

Bellamy, whose intensity Clarke has felt grow throughout the duration of her little show. That charge in the air headier now, a seductive hum pulling tighter between them.

Her skin is alight under his watchful gaze, her nipples pulling tight with arousal, her pussy fucking drenched with it. This game is a test of his restraint, but at this point, if he waits much longer, she’ll be squirming in her seat to relieve some tension.

Thankfully, her companion inadvertently helps her out. With an incredibly smarmy smile she’s sure he thinks is charming, he lifts a hand to thread through her hair, the intention behind the move clear in the darkening of his gaze, the slight lean forward.

Clarke’s heart quickens in her chest, her breath catching.

This is always the most delicious part, where the stakes are suddenly raised, and the chance that Bellamy won’t reach her in time becomes a real possibility.

Her body runs ablaze with anticipation, cunt clenching and excitement surging when, _finally_ , the distinct drag of a chair moving swiftly against the floor sounds over the thrum of music in the bar. She can feel the warmth of Brad-Chad’s breath against her lips, the tightening of his fingers in her hair as he pulls her closer, closer, _closer —_

A gasp is pulled from her lungs when Bellamy’s arm wraps around her entire waist, and he tugs her back.

His touch is branding, his presence dominating, and all the desire that’s grown hot and needy throughout her swells with renewed intensity. She blinks up at him, eyes roaming the hard line of his jaw, the possessiveness that darkens his burning gaze. Already, only pulled into his chest, one arm holding her close, she feels more than she has with anyone since he left.

Perhaps this is the reason behind Clarke’s uneventful dating history in recent years. Nobody has managed to capture her attention quite like Bellamy does.

She watches with rapt hunger as he stares down her would-be suitor, a sound that’s close to a growl emanating from his chest. She’s seen this look dozens of times before — dominating, proprietorial, a man staking his claim — but the years that have passed have only made it all the more alluring, her tolerance to this behaviour weakened. Her body aches to be on the receiving end of such primal treatment.

“Dude…” Brad-Chad says, breaking Clarke from her lustful reverie. She looks at him, the confusion that furrows his brows not quite hiding the slight fear Bellamy’s inspired.

A thrill runs through her chest as her eyes flick between the two men, sizing each other up. Tension draws between the three of them for one, two, _three_ long beats, before Bellamy, still with only a single arm wrapped around her waist, eases her off the bar stool and pulls her pointedly to his side.

“She’s _mine,_ ” he says, his voice dark and low, a delicious warning _,_ and then he’s tugging her away, allowing Clarke only enough time to grab her phone and purse from the bar-top.

Noting the time, she looks over her shoulder as Bellamy guides her to a side door in the bar. “Sorry Chad,” she says to the man left behind, hoping the fifty-fifty shot is correct.

Brows furrowing in confusion, and from the tick of his jaw, _frustration,_ he calls out to her. “It’s Brody.”

She’d feel bad if not for the wife and kids likely waiting for him at home, and the far more pressing emotions that swell through her. Hunger, need, and yearning all thread together with almost overwhelming intensity as, keeping her pressed to every hard line of his body, Bellamy leads her outside, to the alley lining the bar.

He pins her back against the brick wall as soon as they’re far enough from the door, jealousy a dark glimmer in his already near-black eyes. Her pussy throbs in response, a rush of arousal pooling between her thighs.

“Only twenty one minutes,” she says, her voice low and throaty. She’s acutely aware that these are the first words spoken between them in years, that she’s using them as a calculated taunt. “I think you’ve lost your edge, Bellamy.”

His fingers tighten against her hips, and he presses her harder against the wall. Clarke’s sure she’ll have a scratched up back by the end of this. But he knows that she’s right. The longest they’ve gone with this game is two hours and sixteen minutes, which resulted in what can only be described as a marathon of fucking. Bellamy spent the entire night reminding Clarke of exactly who she belonged to, in every tantalising way he could.

Tonight’s effort barely scratched the surface of the jealousy he’s able to resist, but she suspects that just like her, his tolerance has diminished without regular engagement.

A notion that he only confirms, when, instead of responding with the words he once would’ve, intended to build the tension that’s already hot and palpable between them, he presses forward with a growl to claim her mouth.

Clarke whimpers into it, the heady desire thrumming through her veins rushing to each of the points she’s aching the most, hungry for Bellamy’s attention. As though sensing the fact, he draws one of her legs up around his hips, nestling himself between her thighs, so she can feel the hard length of his cock. Dropping her phone and purse, her hands cling to the corded muscles of his back, an assurance that he remain close, though of course it’s not needed. Rocking into her, Bellamy keeps his mouth on hers, the kiss a biting claim, possession running into each deep stroke of his tongue against hers, the almost angry press of his lips.

He tastes like craft beer, something deeper that she can’t identify outside of the intensity to which she craves it, that coaxes a needy whine from her when he pulls away.

Dark amusement flashes across his face, as they each suck in deep breaths.

“And you’re already grinding against me like the desperate fucking tease you are,” he says, the roughness of each word sending a shiver down her spine. Leaning in, he noses at her jaw, his breath hot on her neck. His free hand draws the straps of her dress down her shoulders. It pools at her waist, revealing the laced bra covering her tits. “What’s wrong, princess? Has nobody fucked you right since I left? Wound you up like you know I can?”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat, as he presses forward to suck at the delicate skin of her neck, his fingers tracing over her covered nipples. Her body shudders with the work. Already she imagines the days ahead, red bruises turning purple; she’ll likely get herself off in front of a mirror, two fingers curled deep in her cunt as she relives this very moment.

Her hips cant at the thought, and a low growl reverberates deep from Bellamy’s chest in response. Between one whimpered breath and the next he’s tugging up her dress with rough hands she’s fucking _missed_ , the flimsy lace of her panties ripped clean from her hips in a move that makes lewd excitement surge throughout her. Thick fingers brush over the swollen lips of her pussy, the sweetest torture Clarke’s experienced in years, and when he parts her to find the slick arousal their game has drawn, Bellamy’s low groan reflects that shared affliction.

“Fucking drenched for me, princess,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. His free hand digs into the flesh of her thigh, keeping her open for him. “I’ve missed this pretty, little cunt. Always so fucking receptive.”

Two fingers tease the opening of her pussy, and just as her body always fell victim to his words, her cunt instinctively clenches in response. Bellamy chuckles, pulling back to drink her in wickedly.

Up close, it’s a weight that’s intensified. His eyes run carefully over each feature of her face, a quiet intensity born of deep-rooted intimacy wrapping around them. Clarke’s not sure she’s received such focused attention in the years of his absence, the kind that overwhelms in its unrushed indulgence, that promises the same treatment in other regards. Now, it’s reflected in the slow slide of his fingers into the heat of her cunt, a pace that savours the simple pleasure of stretching her. Only once he’s pressed completely inside of her does he meet her eyes.

Unspoken emotion passes between them, an undercurrent of vulnerability that’s new — or, when Clarke considers it, this feeling an echo of that from years and years ago, their very first time together, _old_ — rising to the surface.

Her mind tries to catalogue each subtle change of his face up close, but it’s an endeavour cut short when, more gently than he’s been with her so far, Bellamy leans in and brushes his lips over hers.

Somehow, it’s a kiss that leaves her more breathless than the first.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he says, the quiet authority that enters his voice drawing another wave of heady anticipation through her.

She shivers, pussy clenching around his fingers. It’s an order she’s familiar with, first fuelled by insecurity, and later, once this game was established, by the promising effect the words had on her. On her tongue, her submission forms with an ease that speaks to a bond unbroken by separation. “I’m yours.”

His gaze is burning, alight. He curls his fingers to begin working her, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit. “Tell me who this cunt belongs to.”

Her hands wrap around his arms, the give of his flesh beneath her touch an anchor. Already pulses of pleasure pool into a familiar tension at her core. “It’s _yours,_ Bellamy.”

“That’s right,” he growls, fucking her on his hand, the very proof of Clarke’s reassurance. “Fucking _mine_ , princess. Every single inch of you.”

They’re words that, years later, remain impossibly true.

His mouth claims hers once more, and where the connection between them had grown quiet with intensity, it now gains the thrilling hunger that overtook them earlier. She can barely breathe, his lips a branding reminder of the possessiveness that runs into every word, every touch. It’s what brought them to such obscene highs long ago, what inevitably ruined them, and now, Clarke knows innately that she’d bear it all again, if it only offered a chance that this time, Bellamy would stay.

The revealing thought clouds her mind, fuels the need that’s taken control of her body. Her hands move quickly, unbuttoning his jeans with far more efficiency than should be possible in her quickly unravelling state. An act that remains branded in her muscles even now, his thick cock the reward for the fact.

Clarke wraps her hand around the familiar girth, renewed arousal crashing over her when he swells under her touch. She’s missed this cock more than could be considered healthy, has fantasised for years all the ways it once filled her up, drew her to such euphoric pleasures.

With a promise of such treatment now, impatience threads into the hunger alight within her.

She strokes his cock, marvels at its continued thickening in her hand. The deep groan that passes from Bellamy’s mouth to her own is a heady reminder that this is a connection that runs both ways, and, emboldened by the fact, she grasps the wrist nestled between her thighs with her free hand, stills Bellamy’s movements.

His breath is warm on her lips when he draws back from the kiss, his darkened eyes ablaze as he watches Clarke ease his fingers from her cunt, bring them up between them.

It’s been years since she’s enjoyed tasting herself with such fervour, the utter reverence that flashes across Bellamy’s face undoubtedly behind her keenness. She sucks the slick arousal from his fingers like she would his cock, and while her pussy clenches down on its sudden emptiness, this move was calculated. He throbs in her hand, control wavering in his expression, and as dark resolve fills his gaze, Clarke tastes victory too.

“Your little cunt never appreciated patience,” he says lowly, the words threaded with debauched amusement. As she hoped, he rocks his hips forward. Heat pools at her pussy when the head of his cock brushes over her. “Always so desperate to be filled by my cock. Isn’t that right, princess?”

She releases his fingers with a low hum. Her eyes grow hooded. “Yes.”

“Might have to tie you up later, teach you a lesson.” His hand replaces hers on his cock, more intent now when he skims it over the slick opening of her cunt. A shiver runs hot down her spine, a combination of the promise of later, and the pleasure he coaxes so expertly now. “But how can I deny you now, after your pretty, little show? Gets you so fucking hot teasing me, doesn’t it?”

Clarke nods, her breath catching with anticipation. He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against the most aching part of her.

“Pretending anyone could fuck you the way I can,” he continues, dark and rough, deliciously possessive. The hand guiding himself shifts to her thigh, and in a display of such alluring strength, he lifts her completely from the ground. It’s a move that allows his cock to slide in an inch. Clarke cries out, her pussy pulsing, as through to draw him the remaining way. She grips his shoulders to channel the sensation, and Bellamy chuckles. “But your cunt fucking _knows_ , princess. That it belongs to me. That nobody will treat it so good. Doesn’t it?”

She nods again, locking her legs around his hips. Words form and die on her tongue, need simmering with aching intensity throughout her.

_“Tell me.”_

It’s an order that draws their past to the present, that demands more than the earlier call and response. This was always a game that went beyond the surface-level sexual gratification, that spoke to the parts of them so dependent on the other. Clarke swallows hard. They’re no longer those young twenty-somethings hurtling towards destruction, and yet, those two words that wrap around them with weighted anticipation are just as seductive as they once were.

Keeping her eyes locked on the blown darkness of his own, she obeys. “I need you, Bellamy,” she says, her voice soft but throaty, watching as satisfaction runs into dark hunger before her. His fingers tighten on her flesh. She hopes they leave bruises. “My pussy fucking _needs_ _you._ Five years and nobody has fucked me as good as you can, baby. Taken care of me like you always would. I’ve tried girls and boys and threesomes and countless fucking toys, and nothing. Fucking. Compares.”

His gaze flashes with a wildness that reflects years of need culminating into this one moment, and Clarke knows probably before he does his next move.

He fucks up into her with one hard, deep stroke.

She cries out, the stretch of his huge cock the sweetest sting she’s felt in years. Overwhelm swells throughout her, born not only from the headiness of unexpected sensation, but the underlying sense of completeness. Her words to Bellamy weren’t fabricated for his benefit; they were a confession that speaks to far more than this single encounter.

His teeth graze over her neck. “I’ve never forgotten the perfect feel of your cunt, princess,” he murmurs, a seductive confession offered in return. Adjusting his grip on her, he begins a familiar, quick rock up into her, and already that earlier tension drawn from his fingers tightens. “How well you take me. That sweet cry you make when I first sink into you. I could come just from the sounds you make.”

Clarke shudders. Praise has always been a tool he’s wielded so wickedly well. “Bellamy…”

He groans against her skin. “Just like that. You’re going to come with _my_ fucking name on your lips, princess.“

It’s an opportunity far too enticing to pass up. Fingers curling tight into his hair, she pulls him back, just so far that he can recognise the wicked glint in her eyes. That her smile is one of debauched power. “Not Brody’s?” She asks, false earnestness softening her voice.

That wildness in Bellamy’s expression intensifies.

It’s not a joke that amuses, but she’s always appreciated his particular brand of punishment: claiming her mouth with a threatening growl, he kisses her with almost bruising intent. Fucks her with the hard, rough strokes that promise a sharp and swift build. Rewards of jealousy that Clarke’s incredibly pleased to reap.

That earlier possessiveness reignites with the reminder of her bar companion. Bellamy’s presence is branding, fierce, as though each movement calculated with the specific purpose to invade her senses, until the world beyond him ceases to exist. His newfound broadness crowding her so deliciously, his touch burning where their bare skin meets. To his credit, it’s a tactic that works. Clarke’s body rushes with heated urgency, moving on complete instinct. Fingers scratching at the warmth of his skin, legs driving his ass forward with every thrust.

Heady pulses of pleasure run one into another at her slick cunt, gaining momentum as she and Bellamy fall into a familiar, intoxicating rhythm. One that hasn’t wavered despite the years between them. One that’s instead fuelled by the new depths of intensity their shared need has found.

She gets a hand between them, pressing her fingers to the swollen bud of her clit. Works it in time with rough pounding of his cock.

Bellamy kisses her with the desperation of a man in search of breath, tasting each soft cry of her rapid undoing. She vaguely recognises the scratch of the wall against her bare back, the digging grip Bellamy has on her flesh, but only so far as it runs into the relentless slap of their hips. A sweet sort of pain that’ll be reflected in the markings on her skin in the morning. A sharpness that holds her anchored to the man fucking her so thoroughly.

Together, they build, growing harder, faster, rougher. Clarke is electric, tension simmering below the surface, curling at the tingling heat of her pussy, tighter, tighter, _tighter_ , until overwhelm draws every nerve-ending to its limit, and she surrenders to Bellamy completely.

Pleasure crashes through her, hot and unrestrained, finding each aching point of her body. She trembles with its intensity, her pussy clenching around his cock, her back arching into a form that, even in her blissed state, she can feel tightening with wavering control.

_“_ Bellamy, Bellamy, _Bellamy…”_

A chant against his lips, as he foretold. One that pushes him over the edge to his own undoing.

Cock pressed deep in her pulsing cunt, he spills into her bare. A final, unspoken claim that Clarke’s not allowed of anyone since him. A fact that only intensifies the intoxicating high he’s coaxed her to.

Together, they ride out the headiness of a release that’s been building far longer than the few hours since she invited him to play with her.

Only once they’ve both drawn back to their bodies does he shift far enough to meet her hooded gaze. Tension thickened by years of history remains palpable between them. Clarke’s breaths slow as her pleasure eases to a warm hum throughout her body. As something far more wicked — cherished by Bellamy and untended for years — preens with gratification. In his eyes, it’s a darkness that’s reflected. Indicative of a matching need that, despite a past that’s proven its inherent risk, remains heady between them.

“That what you needed, princess?" He asks, his voice rough with both release, and the simmering intensity of this mutual understanding. “To tease me like that. Get fucked like that?”

They’re words that send a hot shiver down her spine. This part is familiar, the continued authority that calls for her submission. She nods, clenching instinctively around his softening cock. Already her pussy aches for more. “Yes.”

Dark satisfaction flashes across his face. “Bet nobody’s let you play this little game since I left. Is that right, baby?”

Clarke doesn’t confess that playing with anyone else would feel sacrilegious. “No one else is worth playing with, anyway.”

A wolfish grin pulls at Bellamy’s mouth. Another part of her he can lay claim to. “That’s right,” he says, leaning in to draw her bottom lip between his teeth. It’s a bite that she can feel pulse at her clit, as though her body vouching on his behalf, that it truly does belong to him. “ _Just me_ , princess. Only me.”

They’re words that settle with a seductive weight between them, when, at last, Bellamy eases her to the ground. Pulls out. Clarke can feel his come dripping hot from her cunt, down her inner thighs. A conciliatory prize for the loss of his cock.

He leaves her only so long as to tuck himself back into his jeans, to collect the items she certainly would’ve forgotten in the midst of this encounter. Her phone, her purse. Her panties. Shoving them into his pocket, before, slowly, with the intent to tease, he eases her dress back down over her hips. Letting his hand brush briefly over her pussy. Drawing the top into place to cover her tits, though not before pinching at her nipples.

“I’ll take care of you soon,” he says to her tits, voice threaded with an earnestness that should be ridiculous, yet only draws heated excitement. She imagines Brad-Chad-Brody making such a claim, how she’d struggle to respond with any tact. Now, she struggles not to press her thighs together.

The promise in his voice is far too enticing.

Bellamy catches her gaze. The dark glimmer in his eyes indicates that he recognises the fact, but he presses forward, lips catching hers, no expectation of a response. “All of you, princess,” he promises lowly, and then, resembling the earlier possessiveness that fuelled him in the bar, when confronted with the prospect of another man claiming her, he wraps his arm tight around her waist and pulls her to him. Starts walking them back down the alley.

Already she knows it’s to return to the bar. To reiterate to that man exactly who she belongs to.

He’s in the same booth as he was when she first arrived, a sulking expression that suggests he’s not yet over the sudden rejection of his advances.

Clarke glances up at Bellamy, thrilled hunger swelling in her chest at the sight of him again staring down Brad-Chad-Brody. The haze of pleasure having eased, calculation returns sharp in her mind; it’s far too easy to fall back into a rhythm they carved out for themselves years ago. “Perhaps I should go console him, Bell,” she says, soft and husky. “That is, if you think you’ve got the stamina to sit by and watch.”

Expecting jealousy to return at the prospect of another round of their game, the wicked smile that instead tugs at Bellamy’s mouth is a surprise.

She follows his gaze to Brad-Chad-Brody, breath catching when she finds he’s already watching them. The indignation creasing his expression making it clear they look entirely like a couple who just had the quick, rough fuck he felt his half hour of effort was owed.

Clarke’s mouth twitches with an amused smile. Poor boy won’t get his dick played with tonight. How unfortunate for him.

_She’s_ going to have her pussy played with all night long.

It’s a sentiment Bellamy’s keen to reveal to their onlooker. Arm wrapped around her waist, he slides his hand down the front of her dress, to brush _just slightly_ over the top of her covered cunt. One final claim to draw a look of outrage from Brad-Chad-Brody.

While not the jealousy they worked with earlier, Clarke knows it’s a reaction they’ll still have fun with soon.

“Let’s save it for another night, princess,” Bellamy says, the roughness of his voice sending an intoxicating shiver down her spine. Her pussy aches with slick arousal, anticipation again simmering hot at her skin. Brushing his mouth against her ear, he directs them towards the bar’s exit. Lets his hand slip dangerously low. “I don’t think even he could mistake you as anything but mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoyed!


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